Glance
by skrybble
Summary: For him there are only ever three things worth remembering about the Champion: how they met, how she saved him, and how he lost her. Sometimes, a few moments say it all. Anders/f!Hawke, across seven years. Formerly 'Hindsight'.
1. The First Impression

**1. The First Impression  
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**Goddamn, I don't know what it is with Dragon Age and me consistently picking the less adored character (cough*yeah we all love Alistair but poor Zevran*cough...)  
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**But much as I liked Fenris, I kind of accidentally started an Andersmance, and once you do that with your Female!Mage!Hawke then there's not really any going back. And with the freaking ending... well, there's been some drama. And nothing makes me want to write like rooting for the underdog + drama.**

**IMPORTANT INFORMATION:**

**—This is an AU in the sense that I've never played Awakening, so Justice in this story is radically different from the in-game one (mostly because I got the idea before realizing he was a party character... also because this is more fun.) So I am deviating from canon, but I'm acknowledging it, so we're all good, right?**

**—Character debrief: Female!Snarky!Mage!Hawke (I'm a fan of exclamation points), first name Ariadne. Likes fire. All else will follow.  
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**Disclaimer: Don't own DA2.  
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><p>It is raining when he meets her, just like it is raining when he loses her.<p>

The first time, the rain is coming down hard outside the open window of his clinic, splashing through onto the floor with every petulant gust of wind. He has just finished healing and, as the patient and his family hurry towards the door—no one, after all, sticks around in an apostate's den—he slumps back against the table's edge, struggling to catch his breath. He knows, with a tired and painful certainty, that he is wearing himself down. Healing day in and day out can't last forever, even with a spirit helping him; it weighs on him, a shadow on the back of his neck. He can't keep going like this.

It's almost funny how she walks in the door just as he thinks, _Something is going to have to change_.

He didn't see her coming, but Justice did, and told him right away. Justice is bad at being silent. Anders had never thought that the spirit would have such a mouth on him—a spirit of Justice just _sounded_ too austere to be sarcastic, didn't it?—but, then again, he'd been wrong about a lot to do with Justice.

_Turn around, you lazy bugger_, says the spirit sharply, jolting him to attention._ Staff out, look scary. Remember how to do that?_

_Yes, I remember_, Anders replies, and turns around quickly as she breezes through the doorway. Her dark hair is wet from the rain, and her cheeks slick with water. What else? In a moment he knows everything: that her armor is well taken care of but still obviously cheap, scarred with the white lines of sword-blows; that she's limping slightly; that, just for a moment, she looks frightened. But these are Justice's observations. Anders sees none of this, only the intruder.

"Stop right there," he growls, reaching for his staff. "I've made this clinic into a place of healing, and I am not about to let you destroy that."

"Whoa," she says, holding both her hands up in surrender, and Anders at last finds something worth noticing: the staff strapped across her back. It stops him. You don't get a lot of mages walking free in Kirkwall, let alone ones hunting down another apostate. Then he feels her gaze on him, a faint, prickling sensation, and catches himself. "Why are you here?" he presses quickly, to hide the pause.

"Looking for the Gray Warden. Though you don't seem to be doing a lot of Warden-ing." She glances, calm but thorough, around the room, taking in every detail, and he knows that she is more serious than she lets on. A little flutter of fear runs though him and Justice both, one and the same.

"Are you from the Wardens? Did they send you to take me back?" _The bitch won't know what she's getting into_, Justice grins, and Anders's hands tighten on the staff. "I'm not going_,_" he snaps. "Those bastards made me give up my cat."

She frowns, eyebrows drawing together. "Cat?"

Justice deflates all at once. _Bloody hell. Here we go..._

"Ser Pounce-a-lot," Anders replies, still wary but not entirely so. "Made it through the Deep Roads with me and everything. Nearly took down a genlock once, back in the day. Scratched the blighter on the nose, enough to draw blood."

_This girl is not here to hear about your blighted _kitten_, Anders._

"A _noble_ beast," he adds, mostly to Justice, but when he looks back up at the intruder, she's trying to hide a grin.

"He sounds like a terror."

"They made me give him up in Amaranthine," he admits sadly, even as Justice berates_, Stay on your sodding guard!_ "It was a dark day in my Warden-ship, let me tell you. And—" _Anders!_ Justice shrieks, and abruptly he remembers that this woman is still a threat. "And if you're here to take me back, then you'll have to take me by force, because I'm never coming with you!"

"Relax," she said, a full smile breaking across her face. "I'm about as far from a Warden as you can get. Name's Hawke." She extends a hand, pale and marked with delicate white scars. "Ariadne Hawke. I'd say maybe you've heard of me, but I'd be a pretty awful apostate if you had."

He's slightly shocked by her casual use of the word, but she grins straight after, as if to reassure him. "Come on," she prods, "you're not going to turn me in, right? I'd say now we're even."

She's got a point. "Fine," he replies, Justice not letting him return the smile. "I'm Anders."

At last he takes her hand and shakes it dubiously. She waits for him to continue, but he doesn't. "Okay," she mutters, "Anders. Can I at least know if it's a first or last name?"

"If you've got a point, make it." He's not really losing patience, but Justice is, and the words are less Anders's than his. Hawke hesitates, and then shrugs easily.

"Fair enough. I was here to ask for your help."

He tries so hard to ignore her as she launches into her proposal, but she's so damn persuasive, and there's something he likes a lot about her grin, the way she smiles like she's got a joke she's not telling. He keeps saying no to this Deep Roads venture, but he's seriously starting to wonder how he can find out more about this mage. By the time he's saying, "A favor for a favor?" Justice has stopped trying to make himself heard and falls quiet with a, _well, at least make damn sure you save Karl before you start fantasizing about her._

And Anders, who has never worried before about tempting fate, replies, _She's not going to be a distraction, Justice._

Those are an example of famous last words.

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><p><strong>Basically... Justice is a snarky bastard. If it's not going to keep you from reading... well, thanks, and reviews are always appreciated!<strong>

**—skrybble**


	2. The Lie

**2. The Lie**

**or, in which Anders isn't _entirely_ honest about the whole glowing-eyes situation.  
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**Whoa! Readers! Haha, it's always a pleasant surprise for a new story. Thanks to everyone who favorited or subscribed; it's awesome feedback to get :)**

****Little more backstory into Justice this time. He's still OOC. It's still intentional. Aaaand that said... enjoy, I suppose.**  
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**Disclaimer: Don't own DA2.**

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><p>He is so tired when he gets back from the Chantry, tired not just in the foggy-headed, limp-muscles sense but in the curl-up-in-bed-and-never-get-up way. It's the feeling of defeat—the knowledge that how hard he tried still wasn't good enough. Karl is dead, and Justice is outraged, and Anders wants nothing more than to close his eyes and collapse right where he's standing. Maybe then Justice will at least shut up. He lurches through the door to his clinic, already sure that this night can't be over soon enough.<p>

"_So_," she says from behind him, with purpose, and he realizes abruptly that sleep might be nice but is just going to have to wait.

"This is about what I think it is, right?"

"Glowing eyes," she drawls, crossing her arms. "So I bet that's a fun one at parties. You'll have to tell me where you learned it."

He knows she's more serious than she acts; this much, at least, he's already begun to assume about her. She's all lidded eyes and lazy confidence, but when she says _tell me_ then she means it.

"This is tricky to explain," he starts, a weak beginning that impresses neither her nor Justice. "Back when I was in Amaranthine, I met a spirit of Justice who was trapped outside the Fade. He and I… became friends, I guess, and after a while I realized there was so much more we could do together than separately. So I…" _Just say it_, he thinks, and_, spit it out, bastard_, Justice interjects. "I took him on as a host."

Hawke's eyes go very wide, and behind her that redhead—built like a bear, that woman is, with a disapproving scowl directed not so much at Anders as at the entire situation—reaches abruptly for her sword. "You're an abomination?" Hawke demands, and then again, "Wait, wait wait—_you?_ Are an abomination?"

Not even like 'Maker, what have you done?' so much as 'you? _Really?_', which is kind of irritating. "It's not like that," Anders snaps reflexively, even though it absolutely is, and the irritation is his and Justice's both. "He…" He wants to say that he's not disfigured and he's not crazy, that Justice is just a stupid, arrogant voice in the back of his head, but he knows that he can't explain the spirit to her.

Justice isn't like other spirits, the ones that have spent their entire existences in the Fade. They don't just speak differently, they communicate differently altogether. They don't know how to have conversations or read faces, just how to take people over, jerking them around like wide-eyed puppets on strings. But Justice is different—he was trapped outside the Fade, and he's spent time around people. Spirits in the Fade are defined only by their essences, but Justice grew, in his time with humans, a personality.

They didn't realize until he'd already settled into Anders' body: that there wasn't one more powerful creature, but two now trapped in one mind. In a way it's like sharing a room with a stranger—secrets dissolve when every part of their day is spent together, until they coexist as best as any two personalities can. At least they share the same views on mages, about bringing equality back to Thedas.

If only Justice wasn't such a _snarky_ bastard.

Sarcasm must be the spirit's favorite discovery from the human world. For all that Justice can do well, there's the maddening part of him that also needs to _point it out_. Anders knows that the spirit does resent the fact that they're both trapped together, and he gets that mockery is, for Justice, a coping device.

Which makes it no less obnoxious.

He can't explain this to Hawke. Justice would never back him up: the spirit's even learned to talk like people expect when he takes over. In part, it's his way of torturing Anders, but they both know that no one can meet the real Justice. Spirits aren't meant to have personalities; how could they justify it? _I'm not _just_ an abomination, I'm a uniquely crazy one_. Split-personality disorder, he's pretty sure, is not going to calm Hawke down.

So he pauses, and then lies, "Justice and I are one. His mind is my mind—we both changed each other when he took over my body." At least everything but the first part is true, sort of. "I'm just a person now—except the part of me that wanted justice for the mages is stronger. And now I've got the power to do something about it."

"And it comes with glowy blue eyes and everything. You got a bargain, huh?"

She's not getting it, and if he doesn't win her over… _then you're in deep shit, buddy_, finishes Justice in a growl. "Please try to understand," Anders pleads quietly, intensely. "I'm not a blood mage; I've never wanted that. I can control this power."

She eyes him up and down, as if she's looking for a sign of possession—bubbling skin, maybe, or his suddenly sprouting claws. "In my experience, there's no such thing as a free meal. Or… well, free glowing eyes, as it were. Magic, I suppose." Behind Hawke, the redhead guard groans, and Hawke rolls her eyes. "Oh, you know what I _mean_, Aveline," she mutters, in a way that makes Anders suspect this has happened before. "I happen to believe him."

"Oh, for Maker's sake," the redhead protests loudly, and Anders cringes. "An abomination? As if that bloody elf wasn't enough?"

"Fenris or Merrill?" Ariadne is unperturbed. "Because I don't really see how you could _not_ like Merrill. I mean, Fenris I can understand; he is a little bit… well, not a _people_ person, anyhow. But he's pretty easy on the eyes, so that has to make up for some of it." She's smirking now, as Aveline begins to splutter, eyes narrowed. "Speaking of eyes, have you seen his? You must have by now, right? I mean, I know almost all elves have pretty eyes, but his are especially—"

"This isn't a joke!"

Aveline finds her tongue abruptly, and as she speaks Hawke's mouth tightens at the corners. It becomes quite clear to Anders in a moment that he was right: this mage takes things more seriously than she dares let on.

"I'm aware," says Hawke softly. "Trust me, Aveline?"

And to Ander's amazement, the guard opens her mouth and hesitates and then falls silent. "I'll be outside," she says tightly, after a moment, and turns on her heel.

Anders can't help the shock—even Justice is surprised. "Wait," he murmurs. "You really… you believe me?"

"In a 'not turning you in to the templars' sense, sure." She flashes him a smile, and he's grateful enough to return it. "Surely the spirit can't be all bad, if it accounts for this sexy-haunted look of yours."

_Oh dear Maker_, groans Justice, as Anders double-takes and hurriedly recollects himself. _What would it take for you not to get distracted by everything you meet with breasts?_

_A hell of a lot more than you_, Anders snaps back, in a sort of '_don't you get in my way, Justice_' tone, and manages to raise an eyebrow. "Oh, really?" he wonders, with a deliberate sideways grin that he perfected back in the Circle. It's been months since he's done this. "Sounds like I'd better look in the mirror more often."

"I'm supposed to believe you don't already?" She smirks. "Fat chance. Looking like that must take time."

He snorts, waves a hand. "Psh. Escaping the Wardens, a deal with a Fade spirit, few months spent healing all day, every day… I'd say it's a fair trade."

_Shut up. You're an ass, Anders. Do you know that? Do you know that you're an ass?_

_Justice, do us both a favor and give me a second, here_.

Hawke raises her eyebrows. "Oh? That sounds like a good story."

"It's a long one," he hedges, and glances pointedly towards the door, behind which Aveline is waiting with the exact same scowl. "Probably not one to tell right now."

"You think I'll get to hear it some other time?"

Both of them hear the layers in the question. Is she going to see him again? Anders takes a slow breath and lets it out again. What else is there to say? She's helped him. He owes her.

"I have your maps," he says finally, and her eyes open slightly, the attempt to hide her surprise not entirely successful. She hears a very final goodbye that, let's face it, Justice is all in favor of. And Anders is genuinely about to give her the maps—which he's been keeping rolled in a cupboard by the window, which he retrieves without flourish—and say goodbye and good riddance to the Deep Roads and this apostate…

And then when he turns around to pass them to her, she's watching him carefully, and what she finally asks is, "Are you going to be okay?"

He blinks. "What?"

"Well, obviously about the templars," she begins, matter-of-fact, "but about your friend Karl. Is everything going to be all right?" She purses her lips a little, eyes contemplative. "You can lie if you want, but there's not really a benefit."

He holds out the maps, and she takes one end, unsurprised when he doesn't let go. "I don't know." The words trickle out of him, faint and tired.

"Okay." She smiles a little. "Let me know if I can help."

He lets go of the map.

"I'd like to come with you."

"What?"

"Into the Deep Roads," he continues, even as Justice shrieks, _What? WHAT?_ "I know them from experience. I'd be able to help you." He wavers a little before adding, "I do owe you for tonight. I couldn't have… have helped Karl without you."

"I'd have liked to have done more," she disagrees, and when he meets her eyes he sees, maybe for the first time, an utter seriousness. "I'm really sorry, Anders."

"It's fine." He ducks his head, letting go of the maps at last. "Just… if there's anything I can do for you, Hawke, let me know."

She grins with an edge to it, and as he turns away to close the cupboard he thinks he hears, "Oh, I've already got _so_ many things in mind." He straightens abruptly, and finds her sauntering towards the door, as if she'd never spoken at all. He's trying hard to decide whether or not he should reply when she adds, over her shoulder, "If you need anything, just come find me, okay?"

_Psh_. Rarely, if ever, has Justice sounded less convinced. _Just come find her? Like she's going to help us now she has her maps?_

A week later, Hawke appears on his doorstep in time to warn him about a templar patrol in Darktown, and wherever she gets her information, it's just in time.

The day after that, she's chasing bandits with Aveline and fractures her ankle jumping off an eight-foot cliff onto one's back. As soon as she staggers through the clinic door, wheedling to an unmoved Fenris that the least he could do, really, would be to carry her, Anders is already sure he's going to regret this.

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><p><strong>Snarky!Hawkeiskindofanidiotsometimes(don'ttellher.)<br>**

**I'm trying, more or less, not to use in-game script (although this story will follow in-game events, at least until the last few chapters.) But there's just that one line where you get your first chance to flirt with Anders, and then something comes out of Hawke's mouth like "yadda yadda sexy tortured look of yours"... I'm paraphrasing. But it's wonderfully awkward. And did merit inclusion.  
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**Thanks for reading, and reviews are always appreciated!**


	3. The Name

**3. The Name**

**In which Dragon Age lives up to its name, or in which Skrybble makes a big deal of the fact that her Hawke is called Ariadne. Read _nothing_—this means you, mythology buffs—into the name. I just thought it sounded cool.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own DA2.**

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><p>She's not <em>human<em>.

So really, Anders isn't in a position to judge the measure of a human—that pesky abomination thing and all—but she's. Not. Human. Humans don't like the Deep Roads. Nobody likes the Deep Roads. Even the Wardens don't like the Deep Roads; they just tolerate them because they're the only ones who can. Every moment down here is making Anders more and more paranoid, and even though he'd never say it, he can't breath right anymore. Between the gray-brown, flickering light, careening tunnels and stagnant air, he feels like he's suffocating.

Of course she's fine.

"That was _incredible!_" she crows as she jerks her staff out of the creature's eye, her movement stiff from various bruises but her smile dazzling. She's steadying herself on her staff, but so casually that Anders hardly sees it. She's good at making those little things seem unimportant. "Aveline, did you see that? We killed a dragon!" She points to the creature slumped across the ground, a hundred times larger than any of them, as if they're not already looking. "_Varric!_"

"Hawke!" He snaps to attention.

"This needs a sonnet," she announces, gesturing at the body. "You up for it?"

"Already on it." He grins. They're best friends, he and Hawke, if only because they're the only people in the world who could be this cheerful after that kind of fight.

"Excellent," replies Hawke, and then, as though she still can't believe it, "Anders! Aveline! A _dragon!_"

"I see it." The guard captain is less than exuberant as she gives the corpse an obligatory once-over. "Next time we're finding a different route _around_ the monsters, Ariadne. You took a nasty hit to the head there."

"I'm fine." He doesn't look but can hear, without being able to explain how, that she's rolling her eyes. If he had been watching her, he might have seen how she was gripping her staff tighter, knuckles stark and white. "Just a little dizzy. I'm a big girl, Aveline."

"But still not intelligent enough to get _behind_ my shield when a dragon charges."

"You're no fun," Hawke sulks, rubbing at a streak of blood on her cheek, and Aveline shakes her head. Besides Hawke, only Varric seems remotely pleased about this fight; the dwarf's already frowning at the dragon as if figuring out the best way to depict it in verse.

_How about 'vicious bastard'?_ Justice supplies bitterly, and in one of those rare coincidences, he and Anders are in perfect agreement. Anders is not a fan of dragons that can breathe fire at him while he's concentrating on healing, and Justice, who feels what Anders feels, wasn't a fan of the burns from a couple minutes ago.

Maker. He turns away from the dragon, too tired even to look at it. The sooner they're out of here, the—

"Hawke!"

It's not a 'Hawke-I've-got-the-perfect-rhyme', but 'oh-_shit_-Hawke-no', and Anders jerks around in time to see Varric slinging Bianca over his shoulder, Aveline spinning frantically on her heel, Ariadne lurching sideways with a hand to her head. She draws it away and the fingertips are dark and wet. "The hell…?" she mumbles, staring at the dribbling red on her fingers, and another drop of blood skitters down the side of her face. He sees her swipe at it, eying the streak of red on her hand, connecting it dazedly to the smell of copper in the air. He's seen that face before, the way her eyes widen and go slightly unfocused.

"Hawke?"

"Anders," she croaks back, and he starts forward. "I think I might be… bleeding…"

"Stop," he interrupts, and she lets out a breath in a _whoosh_, and then it's as if all the energy hisses out of her too, because she staggers sideways, falling heavily into him. Her staff clatters to the ground. He grunts and reaches an arm to pull her upright. Blood is slicking down her face, carving red around her eye socket like war paint.

"I've got you," he tells her, which is a stupid thing to say, because a moment later he blurts, "Varric," and the dwarf darts forward. He's got an arm around Hawke's waist, lowering her to the ground, and she blinks foggily, rubbing at her face with a hand.

"When I got knocked over," she manages, and then, "I didn't think… it was bad?"

"It's not," Anders reassures her instantly, and Justice groans. _Yes it is. She's got blood pouring out of her; do you honestly think it's just a scratch?_

"Shut up," he hisses, and then, "No, not you, Hawke," when she scowls in confusion. Her eyes, already hazy, are beginning to fog over, the focus in them dimming. "Hawke," he repeats, firmly but not calmly. "_Please_. Don't close your eyes. You need to keep them open for me."

She's probably concussed. Dammit, why didn't he pay more attention during the fight? _Oh, I don't know, _Justice volunteers, _it couldn't be that the massive bloody lizard was a little distracting? _but Anders isn't listening. Varric props Hawke up, and Ander's fingers are working along her hairline, feeling for the source of the blood. "_Ow_," she protests feebly, and he cringes.

"Shut up," he mutters, hating how pathetic she sounds, and then clarifies, "Yes, you, Hawke," to her slight frown.

To his surprise, the expression doesn't leave her face. It's not a confused look, or if it was then it's ceased to be. "Hawke," she repeats, and it takes him a moment to realize she's not just parroting. "_Hawke_. That's all you ever call me."

_What?_ "No it's not." He's found it. The smell of blood, thick and metallic, is in the air, and red oozes on his fingers as, gingerly, he inspects the wound. Breathing deep, he closes his eyes, reaching for any magic left. "I call you by your name. Hawke is just what everyone calls you."

"_Boys_ call each other by their last names," she protests, blinking owlishly, her eyelids sliding lazily shut and open again. "Back in Lothering, everyone called Carver 'Hawke'. It's a name boys use for their friends." She tilts her head sideways. "I'm not a boy. Why do you always call me Hawke?"

"Did she hit her head hard?" demands Aveline, and Anders shrugs helplessly. He doesn't have the mental capacity to argue this point, to try and work out why he calls her Hawke anyway. He's trying to heal her, sending sparks of magic flickering along her temple, probing for any worse damage that he hasn't noticed; neither she nor Aveline is helping.

"Because everyone does," he shrugs. "Varric does. You don't mind that."

The dwarf snickers. "Moot point, Blondie. I have nicknames for everyone."

"But you don't," Hawke chimes in. "Anders, _Ar-i-ad-ne_." She enunciates carefully, syllables trickling off her tongue. "Say it. Go on."

He closes his eyes, lets out a long, slow breath. "_Ariadne_," he repeats softly, and the magic runs out from his fingers, needling into her veins, sealing skin over fresh and pale like new leaves. She's okay, he tells himself. She's okay.

She takes a slow breath in, lets another out. Her eyes rise to meet his, lucid and startling. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" she inquires, and then smiles before he has to reply. "You're... really good at that," she adds, surprising him. "Thanks, Anders."

"It's nothing." He lifts his hands away from her temples, because suddenly it seems oddly, uncomfortably intimate, the way he's yes, healing her, but also holding her gaze, her face in his hands. Suddenly Varric is eying Anders with this horrible look on his face, and the mage just _knows_ that Varric's jotting mental notes about this scene, already seeing character development that neither Anders nor Hawke is ready for. Aveline, as Anders draws quickly back, just seems torn between gratitude and skepticism. She actually likes mages, that Aveline, and she's really quite a good person for a guard. But she and Anders are never going to be friends.

And Hawke…

Hawke is picking herself up and saying, "Varric, put a stanza about Anders in the sonnet," and then, purposely snagging his gaze before he can turn away, adds to Anders, "Call me Ariadne more often."

In their shared mind, it hits Anders and Justice at the same time, and it's impossible to say whose thought it is.

_Oh no she needs to stop smiling like that this is so bad so very very bad—_

_You ass_, Justice groans, _you complete ass, now you've done it…_

Why is he here? He's been asking himself this whole time, right? Why did he even come to the Deep Roads? And the problem is that he knows why—it's because of what just happened, because he hated the idea of her going down here without someone watching her back. Damn, he should know by now when he's over his head—

_No_, Justice interrupts, _no. Over your head is a very different thing. You should know by now, Anders, when you are _non-compos_-effing-_mentis.

She's already walking away, and he's following, but that smile is like a sunspot, stuck on the inside of his eyes when he blinks. _But… she's so pretty_, he thinks weakly, _Justice, it's not my fault_…

_Just because people are_ pretty_ doesn't mean they're not ruthless sons of bitches, Anders. Remember the pirate? And the elf?_

Fenris or Merrill?

_The elf who wants to kill you, idiot._

Ariadne doesn't want to kill me.

For a moment, Justice is silent, and when at last he speaks his voice is soft but frigid. _Hawke,_ he corrects. _Call her Hawke._

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading, guys! Reviews are always amazing ^_^<br>**


	4. The Downside

**4. The Downside**

**Or, in which Anders has seriously misunderestimated how in control he is.**

**(Misunderestimated: like nuke-u-lar, not a word, but we can all dream.)**

**Disclaimer: Don't own DA2.  
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><p><em>Anders, I'm going to kill them<em>.

Anders can feel the rage, but Justice doesn't sound anything but decisive. A chill races down Anders's spine, and he closes his eyes, shoving the spirit into the back of his mind. _No. Justice. This is their place; they can't see—_

_I'm going to kill this bastard. _ Justice is louder, angrier, his voice rising; Anders hears the spirit losing control. _You son of a bitch! Don't you see what's happening? Look at him, Anders, for the Maker's sake, will you effing turn your head and—  
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Anders looks.

In front of him: the mage girl Ella as she drops to her knees, sobbing so hard that it shakes her body, her head shaking desperately back and forth.

Behind her: that bastard templar with eyes like tundra, cold and gleaming and devoid of sympathy.

"Plea—_please! No! _I'll do anything!"

"That's right. Once you're Tranquil, you will do… _anything_ I want."

To his side: Hawke, never lost for words.

"Whatever you're doing," she spits, "you're going to stop. _Now_."

She's too late. Anders's eyes move over the girl, half-wild with fear, the smirking templar, and he loses the fight. In a moment he feels his hands trembling with anger, notes that without even realizing he has taken hold of his staff. Justice is striding forward on his legs, Justice has his mouth and hands, and snarls, in a voice that truly belongs to a spirit, "_You fiends will never touch another mage again!_"

He always forgets the extent of the power he agreed to take on—or, more simply, how Justice really is terrifying. His voice crackles with fury, and even Hawke takes a step back, her eyes flashing. Damn, Anders thinks, and he's tried so _hard_, too. She's never seen Justice since the first day they met, through no small effort on Anders's part. He doesn't want her looking at him like she did in the Chantry. Everyone else can think he's an abomination, but not her. He needs Hawke on his side.

_Justice, no!_ he protests, but it's a lost cause. The spirit's not listening to anyone any more. He throws a hand out in front of him, and the templar flies backwards into the rock, splayed like a rag doll against the stone as he hits. His head cracks on granite; a streak of blood follows him down to the ground as he crumples.

_Yes, Anders_, Justice growls. _I'm only doing what you're not brave enough to do_.

_I am brave! _Anders shouts back, but it's lost beyond the howling in his ears. His whole mind is thrown into chaos, a hurricane swirling around him, and him trapped inside the eye and looking out. This is the only time he feels how Justice does, unable to move even his own eyes to look away—_another swing of his staff, another templar, Justice roaring with satisfaction_—and pray that Hawke's timing doesn't fail them now.

Then as fast as it began, it is over.

He waits a heartbeat for Justice to recede, letting go, giving Anders's mind back to the rightful owner. Nothing changes, and as the moment passes into the next he is suddenly, truly afraid.

Justice advances towards Ella, the girl on the ground. Tears are still wobbling on the edges of her eyes. "_And you_," he snarls, "_you who cannot even fight for yourself? You are a scourge to your own kind!_"

_Justice!_ Suddenly Anders is on his feet, roaring at the top of his lungs, begging for the spirit to listen. He sees what's going on in Justice's mind, just like Justice sees him, and he needs control back before something terrible happens. Ella whimpers. _You don't need her, Justice. Stop toying with her and let her go!_

"Anders, the templars are dead!" Hawke's voice comes from behind, sharp and deathly serious. "Game's over. Give it up."

"_No!_" Justice roars, whirling on her. "_Every one of them will feel Justice's burn! If you do not stand with me, you stand against me."_

At just the wrong moment, Ella finds her tongue, words tremulous but still loud enough. "Get away from me, demon!" she blurts, cringing away from Justice, and Anders's stomach seems to drop into his feet. Justice turns abruptly to face the girl, drawing himself up taller, his face cracked with fury.

"_What did you call me?_"

"Stay away!" she repeats, but it's feebler now, her lip quivering. "I… don't come any closer!"

"_Demon?_" Justice echoes, his voice soft and dangerous. "_Demon?_" And a single thought breaks through his mind, their mind, crashing over all else wave, a single certainty about this girl, the absolute knowledge of what he must do.

_No!_ Anders digs in his heels, fighting with every drop of strength he's got left, and Justice's hands freeze in midair. A few feet away, Hawke doesn't dare move; her gaze never wavers from the man in front of her, his eyes blurring brown and blue. _Dammit, please, think about it, Justice, this isn't what we're meant to do! We're supposed to save them!_

_I am saving them_, Justice hisses, and Anders recoils; the words hit him like ice against bare skin. _They've already ruined this girl, Anders, can't you hear her? She's one of them. I can't save the mages if I can't amputate the diseased limbs._

You_ can't save the mages?_ Anders repeats. _It's not _you_ saving them, Justice, it's both of us. The second it stops being us, then I've become exactly what they expect of me._

_Then stop trying. _Justice's voice is flat and without pity. _You already are what they expect. You don't need to sugarcoat it just because you want Hawke to like you. You are an abomination._

All in a moment, this exchange. Anders stops, shocked, his resolve slipping for a moment, and then realizes that that was all Justice needed. The spirit's in control, and Anders is beyond horror, beyond fear, and he can't control his legs or his mouth or his hands as they reach backward for his staff.

"Anders, don't hurt her. She's not the enemy."

Hawke's voice carves through the silence. She's standing behind him, and Anders can't see her face, can't read anything in her tone. Suddenly, desperately, he wishes she understood—this isn't Anders any more; Anders in his right mind would never want this. Justice's staff is out, pointed at the girl, its tip level with her throat. If she runs, it will be the last thing she ever does; if what Hawke says next is wrong, it will be the last thing this girl ever hears.

"_She is one of them_," Justice snarls. "_Their taint is in them. There is no helping her_."

"If you hurt her," Hawke breathes, "then you're going against everything you're fight for in the first place. When I met you, you wanted to save the mages." He hears the fury in her voice, the false composure and, underneath it, the fear. "Don't you _dare_ turn your back on that."

"_I haven't_."

"Prove it." Her voice is deadly. "Let her go, Justice."

Not Anders, she says, but Justice. The spirit starts at his name, his focus broken, and it's what Anders has been waiting for. He surges forward, pushing Justice aside and away, even as the spirit shrieks in fury. There's a terrible, rushing moment where his hands won't move for either of them, and his face is torn in two creatures' desperation, and then Anders claws his way to the surface, and Justice is forced back. The tip of the staff drops to the ground with a hollow clatter.

_Oh, Ariadne,_ thinks Anders, _thank the Maker for you_.

Ella stares at him, her eyes wide and wild, and as he meets her gaze, Anders suddenly can't speak. "Maker," he whispers at last, the word shaking on his lips. "Please, I'm so sorry…"

Abruptly, Ariadne's staff snags his arm, tugging him back. He stumbles, and she steps forward, level with him, pushing the tip of her staff into his chest. Catching on, he steps quickly away from her, but she doesn't set down the staff. He follows it up to her hands, white-knuckled on the wood, up her tensed arms and to her face. She's a study in light and dark, her face pale with rage and eyes dark and burning as he's ever seen.

"Pull shit like that again," she spits, "and I will effing _disembowel_ you. Is that clear?"

Another 'sorry' is on his tongue, but something tells him not to speak. Instead he gives a single, rapid nod. Her eyes narrow fractionally.

"Varric, the girl," she says, and the dwarf strides towards the mage, offering her a thick, hairy hand that would make anyone feel better. Ariadne's eyes flicker back and forth between the sight and Anders, fierce and distrustful.

"Ariadne—" he begins.

She straightens her staff, breathing slowly in and out. "Anders, get out of here," she hisses, and she has never spoken to him so coldly; maybe no one ever has. He turns and goes, wordless, stomach turning with shame.

* * *

><p><strong>But seriously, after being nearly skewered by a Justice abomination, is there really anything more reassuring than a hand from a hairy-chested, crossbow-slinging dwarf?<strong>

**Reviews are always appreciated!**


	5. The Promise

**5. The Promise**

**or, in which Anders angsts like no other, and Snarky!Hawke is wilier than anyone ever gives him/her credit for.  
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**Disclaimer: Don't own DA2.  
><strong>

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><p>"Trash. Trash. Keep."<p>

_You're trash_.

"Keep. Trash. … Keep."

_Hear me? Trash, Anders. This isn't my fault. I'm a spirit of Justice. It would have been fine if not for your effing body. You're a corruption_.

"Trash. Trash."

_Say something. Don't be so quiet. You've always been too quiet—you would never speak up for the mages on your own. _

"… Trash. Trash."

_You need me. I've never needed you._

"Trash."

_Garbage, Anders. You're trash. Do you hear me? Dammit, Anders, listen to me!_

"Anders?"

He didn't expect to hear anyone else—it takes him a moment to realize this voice isn't in his head. Justice lets out a faint snarl, and then, like a cat too lazy to chase its prey, sinks back into the shadows in Anders's mind. They both watched her sidle up next to him. Her face is unreadable, but only to someone who doesn't know her. When she doesn't want people to know what she's thinking, she smiles. It's only when she's too worn down to pretend that she lets herself look this tired, this serious.

She surveys the table, covered with Anders's belongings, for a long, wordless moment, and then tries to grin. It's a painful attempt and hits Anders dully like a blow to the stomach.

"Yard sale?"

Desperately, he almost laughs, and then doesn't. "Hawke."

The smile slips. "Not Ariadne?"

"No."

"All right," she shrugs, like, _whatever, I don't care_, and he can't tell if he's upset her or not. She leans against the table next to him, crossing her arms. "So what is all this 'trash-keep' business, then?"

"Self-explanatory, isn't it?"

"So maybe I'm oblivious."

"I'm leaving," he snaps, slamming his hands down on the table. "There. Happy?"

"Is that a trick question?" she wonders, still as relaxed as ever. "Am I _happy_ about it? Do you honestly expect me to say yes?"

"You don't want me gone?" he demands, turning to face her for the first time. For a moment he thinks he sees apology in her eyes, or maybe pity, but it's gone before he can be sure. "Ari—_Hawke_, you saw me! I would have murdered Ella. I'm a danger to everyone I've been trying to help." His knuckles whiten, hands knotted into fists. "I'm not putting myself in that situation again," he growls. "I have to go while I still can."

"You're giving up?" Delicately, she arches an eyebrow. "I suppose that's a new one. How long until this phase blows over?"

"This isn't a phase!" he snaps. "Hawke, do you understand what nearly happened in there? If you hadn't been there—"

"But I _was_ there!" Her voice rises for the first time, growing louder and more brittle as it does. She hesitates a moment, getting herself under control, and then forges on. "I was there to stop you. And I'll be here for as long as I have to, unless you run away first."

He stops, looking at the table full of half-packed belongings without really seeing them. She looks so hurt, so angry, and she seems almost as startled by it as he is. Ariadne has no trouble saying what she thinks—if anything, she should learn to keep her mouth shut once in a while—but he's so used to her playing it off, making everything into a joke.

"You're a better friend than I deserve," he murmurs, not looking up from the table, choosing his words carefully. _Friend_, he says deliberately, and not anything else. She doesn't deserve to be stuck with him. "But you're putting too much faith in me. I can't do this." Maker, why is she making him say this? She must know—not just everything he's saying, but how he's tried to keep it from her. "I know I said I could control it, but I can't, Ariadne. Everything I do, I'm proving them right. I can't stand up for the mages when I'm an example of everything they hate most."

He doesn't see her move before her hand is on his shoulder, forcing him to look at her. He expected anger, but can't find any in her face. She looks a little bit scared by him, and something else. Shocked? No, sadder than that. She's looking at him as if she can't stand to see this.

"Then don't be," she says softly, earnestly, staring him straight in the eyes. "You're not an abomination. You're Anders. And I'm going to help you stay in control."

"And if you can't?"

She grins, wide and impossible to doubt. "Didn't you hear me? I will."

Justice stirs, raising his head. It's impossible to miss the venom in his voice. _And I suppose that when she threatened to kill you, it was all in the name of protecting you too. Or was she just kidding? Got to love a girl with a sense of humor, eh, Anders?  
><em>

It's a reasonable, if sarcastic point. He raises an eyebrow. "So… that thing about gutting me?"

"_Disembowel_," she corrects, and the grin hesitates and shrinks slightly. "Anders, I… look, right then I was—"

"Right," he interrupts. "Ariadne, you were right to be angry—"

"Oh, I know," she cuts back in, her eyes sparkling with humor for a moment. "And I was serious about that. But I said it wrong. It's not that I'm going to hurt you. I don't want to do that. But I won't watch you hurt yourself either." When she meets his eyes hers are more reassuring than any he's ever seen. They're warm and sincere, sure, and that's nice, but there's steel in them, and for a moment he feels safer than he ever has since he took on the spirit. "I'm going to make sure no one hurts you," Ariadne tells him, never taking her eyes off his. "Including yourself. _Including_ Justice."

Anders blinks; Justice recoils. There's an edge to her voice in the last words, a hidden sharpness, like a knife wrapped in velvet. They drive home, incisive, and she sees the shock on Anders's face, the _how-much-does-she-know_ followed by the dull _shit-now-she-knows-for-sure_.

"Don't leave, Anders. Not just yet." To his shock, she pats his cheek once, almost playfully, and turns to amble out of the clinic. The smile on her face is childish, cheeky. If Justice were a human, he would have stopped breathing.

_Does she know_?

No way to know who had asked first.

_Shit_, the spirit whispers._ She's smart, Anders. She's smarter than anyone gives her credit for._

_I gave her credit._

_You could have let me know._

_I was thinking it. You just don't like her._

Justice pauses, abruptly defensive. _I'm not as enamored as you are, if that's what you mean. And by 'not as enamored', I mean _I_ haven't wanted to do her for four years. _There is a brief moment where Anders chokes a little bit and Justice seems to smirk, and then the spirit continues. _One of us needs to be thinking rationally. I think she's a threat._

_And she thinks you are_.

The spirit is silent for a moment, but his presence is chilling, trickling down his spine like ice water. _And what do you think?_ asks Justice finally, much too casually.

Anders wavers. _I think you're both trying to do the right thing_.

_We can't both be right_, Justice murmurs, almost too softly for Anders to hear, and then falls silent. The conversation, Anders senses, is over, even if he isn't quite sure what has changed. He watches the door a moment longer—hearing _don't go, Anders_, thinking despite himself that she seemed to really mean it—and then turns to unpack.

* * *

><p><strong>I've realized belatedly that the rivalry romance with Anders is so much better than the friendly one. Just me, or are they more fun in general than regular romance? Haven't seen Isabela or Merrill so I don't know about those...<strong>

**Reviews are always appreciated!**


	6. The Best Day

**6. The Best Day**

**or, in which we finally get to the action, and Skrybble thanks you for your patience.  
><strong>

**Disclaimer: Don't own DA2.  
><strong>

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><p>What makes it worse is that he's really trying to be stealthy as he checks both ways and ducks through the clinic door. The entrance to his clinic is well-hidden as it is, tucked inside the mouth of an alley and nested in shadow, but it doesn't hurt to be careful right now. Yards away, late-afternoon sunlight is falling sideways through the cluttered shacks of Darktown, and the chatter of a dwindling crowd fills in the air. He breathes in and tastes salt air. For all that Anders hates about this city, there's nothing quite like Darktown at sunset, the way the city stills for just a moment. It's not quite dark yet, that nice time of day when the sun flares gold along the horizon and no one's too drunk yet, and another moment he might pause to savor it.<p>

Right now, though, he's moving fast. The bowl in his hand is full, and almost sloshes over as he bends down quickly. On one hand, this is a waste of good milk that any of the street vendors charge a fortune for, but on the other, that tabby who lives on this street is a _very good kitty, yes he is_, and might show up tonight if Anders just leaves this out right here—

"Are you doing what I think you're doing?"

_Goddammit._

He freezes. His gaze darts to her muddy boots and moves slowly upwards, and he grins hopefully as he meets her eyes. "Depends on what _you_ think is going on here," he hedges, raising an eyebrow. "Because I assure you that whatever you're seeing, it's actually much more masculine than that."

"Oh, really."

"Cross my heart."

"And it certainly wouldn't involve kittens."

"Er…" He glances away. "No. _No_." Cats, he reminds himself, aren't technically kittens.

"Or Ser Purrcival?"

"How do you know about—?" he begins, and then is cut off by a giggle that worms its way through her teeth. Their eyes meet, and when she sees his scowl she bursts into laughter. "Oh, enough," he huffs, setting down the milk and straightening up. "It's really not that funny."

"Ah, you know I love you," she answers, lightly as ever. His head snaps up, and for a moment he can't hide the surprise, but she's just grinning at him. The smile is there to play it off—both her words and his reaction—and he can't tell how much of that line was a crack at his expense.

Of course, she makes a lot of those, so it's best to assume. "Get in line behind the Darktown strays," he replies, deciding to take it as a joke. Too much to hope for anything else, he muses without quite meaning to, and then isn't quite sure where the thought came from.

_Damn right it'd be too much_, Justice mutters. _Don't even think about it, buddy_.

_I wasn't_, Anders protests feebly, convincing no one. Justice doesn't have eyes to roll, but the effect is the same.

"Damn," Ariadne laments, bringing him back to the conversation, "didn't realize I had so much competition. Not sure I can match up to Ser Purrcival."

Anders chuckles. "It's a rough life, isn't it?"

"Tell me about it." She arches an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a smirk. "Especially when you make the trek all the way to Darktown to visit your friend and he won't even invite you inside."

"Why bother, when I knew you'd invite yourself?" She sticks out her tongue at him, and he grins and steps to the side, motioning her in. "Clinic's closed for the evening," he informs her, stepping into the house and kicking the door closed, "so you're welcome to come in, since you asked so nicely."

"You're so sweet sometimes." She saunters across the room and hops cheerfully up onto the operating table, either not put off by the various fluid stains on it or deliberately not looking. "Hey, since you're already in such a good mood, you wouldn't feel like helping a friend out, would you?"

"Helping a—oh._Oh_. Really, Ariadne?" he mutters as he understands, and she shrugs sheepishly. He rolls his eyes, following her over to the table. "At least want to tell me who it was?"

"What."

"I said, at least—"

"No, no, no. I heard you. I'm saying that you mean _what_ it was. Not who."

"Ariadne…"

"Ever heard of a varterral?"

"A var-_what_-al?"

"You haven't?" Her eyes are wide and mock-serious, but there's still a glint of humor in them. "Good. Don't."

"You never come visit me with good news."

She holds up a hand to cut him off, shaking her head. "I came to tell you about Donnic and Aveline," she reminds him. "That was good news. That was _great_ news." This smile won't stay down for long—even as she speaks now, it's bubbling up again to the surface. "Nice night for an evening, isn't it, Anders?"

He laughs quietly. "Stop stalling. Let's see it."

Ariadne nods, for the first time looking less than pleased. She shucks off her coat, wriggling awkwardly to tug it off her shoulder, and Anders winces. For the first time he sees the mess of bandages engulfing her shoulder. "Really?" he asks, shaking his head, and she gives him a stiff, one-sided shrug. He steps closer, starting on the bandages, but it takes him a few seconds even to find a loose end. "Who wrapped this, a blind cripple?"

She swells indignantly. "I did that myself!"

It's not really that funny, but she sounds so offended that he lets out a soft laugh. "Maker's sake. It's an insult to perfectly good bandages."

"Go to hell," she mutters with no bitterness. "Considering I'm one-handed like this, it's not bad."

"But if you'd let me come with you, I could have fixed it when it happened."

"I _know_," she drawls, sounding like a small child as she leans back, staring up at the ceiling. Anders tugs at the bandages, wrapping them into a neat roll as he untangles them from her shoulder. "Look, it wasn't meant to be dangerous. It was just like, all right, looking for some bloody Elvin root for the potion-maker, heading into the cave, totally fine—and then _bam!_ Varterral!" She gestures wildly with her hands, and Anders dodges neatly. "And then there's Merrill like, _ooh, a part of Dalish history_, and Isabella like, _kitten, might want to duck now_… Maker, they're a mess sometimes."

She lets out a deep breath, going half-limp, and he sees for a moment how tired she looks. A moment's all she allows, of course. Then he pulls the last of the bandages off, and at the same moment it hits him that considering Isabela was here around noon, and that's pretty damn early for them to have been to Sundermont and back. "Did this really happen this morning?" he begins, already half-knowing her answer, and then as she tugs her shirt back to expose her shoulder, his eyes go wide.

"Ariadne!" The skin of her shoulder is patchwork-bruised, quilted purple and blue, an array of cuts and scratches sprayed across the top. That's not hours old; it's been there at least two days. "You should have come to me right when you got back!"

"I had a lot to do today." She presses her lips together. "And, um, yesterday. And also needed to verify the existence of that cat of yours." Now she tries a smile. "Worthy cause, right?"

"Now you can make fun of me for it?"

"Now I can secretly think you're adorable." She pauses, considering, and then amends, "And make fun of you. Just a little."

He sighs and reaches up, touching his fingers to the skin of her collarbone. Instantly a flicker of blue darts across the skin, scrubbing away the bruises as if washing away a particularly stubborn stain. His fingers move across her shoulder, painfully gentle, knowing she would never complain but still desperate not to hurt her. The swelling begins to deflate, and the cuts flake away into nonexistence, but there's a bone in here that's halfway fractured. He closes his eyes to concentrate, and misses entirely how Ariadne's eyes never leave his face, wide with interest and something far more interesting.

Instead he shifts his fingers against the skin: bone knits itself together, settling back into place. She lets out a long, slow breath, the expression on her face not even one of happiness so much as relief. Anders drops his hand, taking a slow, steadying breath.

"Better?" he asks, a little pleased with himself, and she nods.

"I should learn to do that," she muses, rubbing the fresh, clean skin on her shoulder. "Does it feel strange when you heal yourself? It always feels tingly for a few seconds after, for me."

Despite himself, he finds a smirk splitting his lips. That's just asking for it at that point, isn't it? "Did I hear that right?" he inquires. "I make you feel all tingly?"

And Justice has a radar for these kinds of things—there's no other way to explain it. Most of the time, he's just sullen and occasionally sarcastic around Ariadne, but now he seems to jolt awake in the back of Anders's mind, roiling all at once to near the surface. _Anders_, he says sharply, _stop. _There's no hint of humor in his voice, nothing but frustration. _You said you wouldn't. You told me you wouldn't._

Anders squirms. _I never… outright said that._

_She's a distraction!_

Well, you can't really deny it, can you? So Anders hesitates, and then agrees, rather unapologetically, _She certainly is, isn't she?_

_Maker, Anders, what I wouldn't give to hit you._

He ignores the spirit. It's a good thing these conversations of theirs can happen in a heartbeat, because Ariadne has already met him head-on. "Chills all over," she declares, with a slightly wicked smile. "Isn't that meant to happen?"

He meets her gaze. The humor in her face is obvious; less so is the genuine interest. "_All_ over? Not sure what that's a symptom of."

"Need to do a full checkup, Doc?"

She wiggles her eyebrows at him playfully and he rolls his eyes. "You've been spending too much time with Isabela," he chides, shifting away from her slightly. He's a little caught off guard when her smile grows even wider.

"Oh, I'm _sure_ of that," she drawls, eyes flashing. "She mentioned something to do with a place called the Pearl. Said you liked to go there sometimes, if I remember right." She must see Anders's eyes widening, his cheeks flushing very slightly, but she keeps going. "And then she was talking about this thing you could do with lightning."

Nefarious. That is the only word for the look on her face right now. "She didn't go into detail, but if the healing is this good…" Ariadne lets the thought trail off. "Care to elaborate? Or give a demonstration, really. Either would be fine."

_Don't. You. Dare. Reply._

Has there ever, in the history of Thedas, been a buzzkill like that one? _It's my decision to_ make, he snaps._ Honestly, Justice, I'm only human._

_No! _Justice barks, almost livid._ That's the point, Anders—you're better than human. I'm not letting you give in to that side. You choose the mages, or you choose… _this_._

_Bloody hell_. He's so torn, Anders thinks, it's sort of amazing he hasn't split in half by now. "Ariadne…" He lifts a hand to his face, a sigh gusting out through his nose. Justice's anger is a near-tangible thing, a dangerous heat spreading through their shared mind; however flippant Anders might be in response, he still knows that the spirit is dead serious. "This needs to stop," he says softly. "I… Ariadne, you know about Justice. I know you think I can control him, but it's not… exactly what you think. I don't think I can do this—not without someone getting hurt."

She should look upset, is the first thing that hits him as the words leave his mouth. When you say stupid shit like 'I don't want to hurt you', girls are supposed to be angry. Ariadne just looks—well, faintly amused, actually. That's… good, he supposes?

"A little credit here?" She grins. "You saw the shoulder. I've got a pretty high pain tolerance."

"I'm serious!"

"Yeah." She tilts her head to the side, eyes never shifting from his face. "Me too. Anders, if this is about the mages, I want to help you, okay? I'm fine with the whole hot-headed revolutionary act." She smirks, teeth glinting. "It's almost as good as Sir Purrcival. And if I ever take it back, I-told-you-sos all round."

_That's the choice you have to make, Justice. Them or her. You shouldn't even have to think about it._

_And if I choose her?_

_You wouldn't._

But Justice doesn't sound convinced. The smile breaks across Anders's face, sick of being fought back. "Well, so long as I warned you first," he says, feeling all at once years younger, spirit-free, without any worries except maybe the fact that his dinner break ends in just a few minutes. He leans forward, and she meets him halfway, her arms winding around his neck, and _sweet flaming Andraste_, he thinks, he's actually kissing her, like he hasn't kissed anyone in years, like he's wanted to for longer than he's willing to admit. He can't even hear Justice any more—it's just him and Ariadne, her hands calloused against his face, and the sea breeze from the window, spinning salt air through the room, making everything taste like a fresh start.

Then, "Hawke?"

And of all the people, it would be Isabela who pushes open the door, saying, "Hawke, you done here?"

It would be lying to say that Anders notices—or, to his satisfaction, that Ariadne does either. Unfortunately, it would be wildly optimistic to think that their friends have the sense to leave quietly. "Ariadne!" Isabela crows, looking absolutely delighted. "When were you planning on telling me this?"

Ariadne jerks back, her mouth falling open at a perfect loss for words. Suddenly how they're standing—her sitting up on the table, arms around his neck; his hands on her legs; her jacket discarded on the table—seems to imply a lot that Anders can only dream about. "Rivaini?" they hear, and then, never one to be left out of the latest story, Varric sticks his head around the door.

His eyes scrunch up as, meticulously, he takes in the scene in front of him. "About bloody time," he grunts at last. "Thought I was going to have to read this out of your journal too, Hawke."

Isabela cackles. "Business, Varric. Ariadne, who went in first?"

"I…" Ariadne isn't just red, she's furiously so, red with a _vengeance_ as her eyes dart from one friend to another. She seems to be trying to figure out which is safer, but both look equally devious, and really, it was a lost cause to begin with.

"It's Anders," says Isabela knowledgeably. "She wouldn't be this flustered if she'd started it."

Varric's eyes narrow. "Hawke? That true?"

Ariadne manages the weakest nod of her life.

"Damn," says Varric, and, reaching into his belt, flips a gold coin to Isabela, who snatches it leisurely out of midair. "Didn't think Blondie had it in him."

"Stick to betting on diamondback," Isabela chuckles, tucking the coin Maker-knows-where. She has this remarkable capacity for storing valuables on her person, thinks Anders idly, especially with how few hiding places that shirt ought to provide.

"Care to give us a moment?" Ariadne inquires, finding her tongue. It's far too late to actually salvage any dignity, but at the least she can buy them thirty seconds more on their own.

Isabela's smirk and Varric's, "You know, I've waited four years to hear you say that," make Ariadne go just a little bit redder, but the dwarf motions with a jerk of his head towards the door, and they make their exit as deliberately as their entrance. Ariadne turns back to face him, looking like she can't decide whether to laugh or hit something, but she settles on, "Are they going to save us lot of explaining, or make for a lot more?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Knowing Varric's stories and Isabela's imagination? You still have to ask?"

"Shit," she says, shaking her head in a not-really-sorry way, and then a grin curls across her face like a wisp of smoke, or a bad idea. "Easier solution—we just make _all_ the rumors true?"

The rest of their allotted moment are really quite pleasant, until Varric bellows from outside, "First step to saying goodbye is taking your tongue out of his throat, Hawke."

_Humans are disgusting_, Justice finally manages, with enough venom to take down a Qunari, and Anders grins.

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><p><strong>... but really, I hate that effing varterral.<br>**

**GOOD GOD, those chapters that just keep going. At least the subject matter's fun, haha ^_^ Have you guessed that (like anyone else who's played the game) I can find no fault with Varric at all, ever?**

**Next chapter is, yeah, what happens when you head home after the first kiss... til then, reviews are always appreciated!**


	7. The First Night

**7. The First Night**

**In which it's exactly what it says on the tin, guys.  
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**Disclaimer: Don't own DA2.**

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><p>His footsteps thud, slow and awkward, against the lush carpeting on the stairs. He's wearing old, muddy boots, haggled over with a menacing street vendor and beloved for being surprisingly waterproof. These are perfect Darktown boots. These are not boots for Hightown, and particularly not for Orlesian carpets. Hawke's mother will have a fit.<p>

As a matter of fact, Hawke's mother would probably have a fit if anyone from Darktown strolled into her house, let alone a mud-tracking apostate there to spend the night. It'd really be a bit worrying, if Anders actually cared.

But he doesn't—doesn't mind that he clashes with everything else in her mansion, or Justice is beyond furious, or that no parent in their right mind has ever wanted him near their daughters. He's still stuck on the fact that he's here, in her house, walking up her stairs, and because Justice is still ranting in the back of his mind, he's almost certainly not dreaming, and he's at the top now, still no sign of her, except—

Except her door is open.

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><p>He begins to wake up in a bed far too comfortable to be his own, and he feels ludicrously happy even before he really wakes, a clear sign that something's just gone very right. This is unexpected, and not in a particularly bad way. For a moment he's almost scared to disturb it, this perfect silence; he's still half-asleep and all these thoughts seem to float on the top of his mind like oil on water, rainbow and senseless. Things usually get so much worse when he decides to wake up completely, and he's not willing to let it go just yet. He closes his eyes, breathes deep, tries not to remember.<p>

He curls forward, pulling these thick, wonderful blankets closer around his shoulders, and his hands collide with something worth recalling.

Namely, Ariadne, who cracks open one hazel eyes and wonders, voice still thick with sleep, "Anders?"

It takes a second for words to happen. "Good morning," he says, finding his voice slow and drowsy. "This is certainly a good way to wake up."

_Drowsy and candid. Nicely done, Anders_. But a grin still finds its way clumsily onto her face. "Look who's all charming," she mumbles. "I wasn't sure you'd still be here."

He blinks, at last startled enough to wake up a little. "What? Why not?"

"Oh, you know." She rolls away onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. The look in her eyes isn't cold but still distant, her thoughts in places he can't really follow. "Just wondered."

"What were you wondering, though?" He shifts closer to her, onto his stomach, and reaches out tuck a wisp of hair behind her ear. It doesn't help much, since her hair's a mess right now, but that's not such a bad thing. Ariadne smiles gently, and he can't tell if it's reassured or guarded.

"It's not a little early for this?"

"It's not that early," he shrugs, trying to play it off. It's taking all his effort to pretend not to be worried. "Tell me."

A lopsided shrug, now, to accompany the smile. "Oh, I don't know. I thought you might decide you made a mistake. Not about the sex," she adds, in the same meandering tone as before, and if Anders was half-asleep before then he's awake now. "But, you know, the staying part. You're so busy giving up everything for the cause, right? I wasn't sure Justice would want you hanging around too."

_Oh, shit,_ he thinks, so eloquent in the mornings, so composed. "That's ridiculous," he chuckles weakly, and it feels a heartbeat too late. "Justice and I are the same person, and I've decided that already."

"Sure," she agrees noncommittally, eyes still lingering on the ceiling above them. "You sound like you've reached a verdict."

"Hey." His hand catches the side of her face, thumb stuttering on her cheek, and she at last turns her gaze to him for more than a moment. "You know what my choice is," he murmurs. He's picking words with all the care in the word, desperate for her to believe him. He's lying and has been lying for four years now about Justice, and if she knows that then she's not trusting him with anything else. He needs her to believe him. Whatever Justice says, Anders means this as much as he's ever meant anything. "I won't choose my cause over everything else that matters too. That's what I've decided—to make sure I can have you in my life."

_We. Have. Not. Decided. That._

I know you haven't, Anders retorts, knowing the silence was too good to last. It's too bad it's not your choice.

_This is violating, _spits Justice, and Anders feels his disgust coiling inside them. _It's just as much my body, you know, and you didn't even ask. That was the single most scarring experience of my existence, and I possessed a _corpse, _Anders_.

He's not ready to deal with this, not now. But it's almost nice to hear the spirit, to be just a little smug. Making a choice Justice doesn't approve of is fun just in itself. Justice, he answers, I don't know what you did last night, but scarring's definitely not the right word.

_Anders, I know _who _you did last night, and I meant what I said._

You don't really understand humans at all, do you?

_My greatest failing_, Justice drawls, with sarcasm that Anders can just about taste.

Ariadne hesitates, tilting her head against his hand. "You really mean that?"

"With all my heart," he replies.

_Your half of it,_ chips in Justice.

_Shut up_, says Anders, when Ariadne grins and leans in towards him. He tastes slightly like morning and so does she, but he could care so much less. He's still not over the fact that he's here, with her, and it's as natural as breathing. There's no way it can be this easy. Nothing comes easy to Anders; it's practically a running joke with him and the Maker by now. Certainly one of Varric's favorites, if nothing else—just short of 'Broody the Elf', which even Anders finds funny nowadays.

She curls up beside him, her head tucked against his; lazily, happily, her eyes move to the window. What is it, nine? Ten? And why the hell doesn't he sleep in until ten more often? "Should we get up?" she muses at last, even as she's already starting to sit up.

He watches a moment as she straightens, her spine unwinding along her back. "I wouldn't mind staying here," he shrugs, tugging almost hopefully on her hand, and she grins.

"I'll bet you wouldn't," she replies. "Before there's any question about it, love, we'll be doing nights at my place. I'm still not convinced there's room for one in your clinic."

He lets a hint of a frown show on his face, one part sulky and nine parts joking. "You mean I'm going to have to walk all the way to Hightown every time I want to see you?"

The smirk grows, and she leans forward a little bit, her hair tumbling from her shoulders. "I said, we're doing _nights_ here," she replies, eyebrows tilting. "Everything else is wherever we feel like it. Now come _on_." She pulls back on his hand. "I'm getting out of bed before Mother decides to come see why I haven't gotten up."

The grimace that slides across his face now is only half-feigned. "Your mother?" he echoes, with apprehension, with the exact same apprehension that every single man has ever felt upon hearing that he is going to meet any woman's mother. He gestures vaguely to himself with his free hand. "Are you sure this is really the…?"

"The…?" She lifts an eyebrow. "Time? Place? Appropriate state of dress?" There's laughter in her voice now, and the battle's been lost before it was ever really fought, since there are three things Anders can't say no to—cats, spirits who want to take over his body, and girls with pretty smiles. "I'd go with yes, yes, and only if you really want to make an impression."

"Ariadne—"

"You're going to get up," she says firmly, "and we're going to get at least slightly dressed, and then we're going to go track down some breakfast. Okay?"

There isn't a soul in the world, he thinks, who would say no to that. "Your wish," he replies, a weary smile on his face, "is my command."

As he watches her climb out of bed, sheets trailing behind her, and tug on her robe, and as he goes to get at least slightly dressed, he's happy.

And as he follows her down the stairs in the same ancient boots and receives some very curious looks from Bodahn and Sandal, he's happy.

And as Ariadne reminds him where all the different rooms are and tells him he'd better start learning his way around, he's just about thrilled, even as she turns to Bodahn and asks if Leandra's still here. They notice the vase of flowers on the nearby table only when he points to it, and for a moment the silence is still perfect.

"White lilies," says Ariadne softly. "Where have I heard that before?"

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><p><strong>So now that everyone knows (or at least ought to know... shame on you) what's coming next... happy Thanksgiving, and there'll be more soon. Reviews are always appreciated!<br>**


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